


Reylo Microfic Collection

by Celia_and



Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars Sequel Trilogy
Genre: Alcohol, Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Angst, Domestic Fluff, Drinking, Established Relationship, Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, Ficlet Collection, Fluff, Happy Ending, Illustrations, Pining, Smut, Soft Ben Solo, Twitter: reylomicrofics, ratings vary
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-05-01
Updated: 2020-11-19
Packaged: 2021-03-02 04:07:59
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 2,641
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23938909
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Celia_and/pseuds/Celia_and
Summary: He didn’t want forever—until she wanted him.
Relationships: Kylo Ren/Rey, Rey/Ben Solo, Rey/Ben Solo | Kylo Ren
Comments: 58
Kudos: 235





	1. March 2020 (part 1)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [bobaheadshark](https://archiveofourown.org/users/bobaheadshark/gifts).



> A collection of tiny Reylo stories small enough to fit in one tweet, based on a daily one-word prompt. A mix of themes, genres, and alternate universes.
> 
> Chapter 1: Rated M & E for explicit sexual content (including NSFW pictures!)  
> Chapter 2: Rated G & T
> 
> A million thanks to [reylogarbagechute](https://archiveofourown.org/users/reylogarbagechute) for conceiving and coordinating this extraordinary Twitter-based outpouring of creativity. 💛

She loves how often he wants her.

At the end of lazy afternoons, when dusk gives way to dark, her eyelids get heavy. But he begs: _Please. Please let me._ As if _this_ time she might say no. She never does.

She always parts her thighs for him.

* * *

Before him, she always had to be on top—always needed that control. To submit to someone, to be vulnerable, it’s too much. But when his weight pins her to the mattress and he unravels above her with a cry she realizes it gives her power, to yield.

* * *

It's a pleasure she never tires of: making love in the afternoon.

Sometimes he takes her on their balcony at Naboo, with the sun glinting off the water. When he pauses and smiles as brilliantly as that first smile, her eyes fill. She can blame it on the glare.

* * *

Her body is a summer harvest

Her lips, raspberries  
Her knees, plums  
Her breasts, oranges  
Her toes, tomatoes  
Her cunt, a persimmon

Juice runs down his chin

* * *

She wants extravagantly.

She wants rough and animalistic as much as she wants soft and tender. She wants crimson and bruising and teeth. She wants whispered kisses and murmurs of aching love.

She mostly just wants _him_ , in whatever way he wants to give.

* * *

He plays her body like a cello: one arm the insistent bow across her waist as his fingers pluck below.

She sings him a stuttering symphony of sighs.

* * *

She forgets the fake name he gave in the hotel bar—moans “Kyber” instead as he devours her cunt. It doesn’t matter, of course. It’s not like they have more than tonight.

But after he’s sheathed inside, time stops, and he _needs_ to say it.

“Ben. It’s Ben.”

* * *

After, as the sweat dries, his fingers trail swirls across her skin. They trace a tingling line and swooping curves that might be a B for him, or an R for her. It doesn’t matter which.

Together, they’re a masterpiece.

* * *

The city sleeps, but she can’t.

It’s only after midnight that she calls him, as if the single digits on her bedside clock make it so it doesn’t count. A call, not a text: no paper trail. She always requests, never demands. He can say no.

He never does.

A taxi ride later, his cock is hers. However she wants it. Always in her bed. It’s not an intimacy, it’s a practicality: so she can sleep after. The frantic thrust, the slide of skin on sweaty skin, the garbled shout. Just a means to an end.

The perpetual excuse: _just to help me sleep_. As if the vibrator in her drawer doesn’t work. As if a dildo wouldn’t do. As if he is the sole keeper of her orgasms and she’s entirely dependent on him to come parcel them out to her, two or three at a time.

When the call comes he knows his day has started. He can’t go back to bed, after. When she falls asleep he resolutely doesn’t look. He just puts on his clothes and lets himself out, without glancing back. He goes to the gym: the 24-hour one. He gives her his sleep as a present.

Her body can tell in the morning when he’s been there. There’s an extra languor. The ghost of his weight lingers.

No matter how early she gets into the office, he’s ready with her coffee and her schedule. Waiting at attention. The consummate professional.

There’s no acknowledgment, no admission. Those days just like any other.

“Good morning, ma’am.”

“Good morning, Ben.”

They live in a fog, the two of them. It never seems to clear.

* * *

Ben can’t remember if it’s the fourth time today or the fifth. She’s stopped putting her sweatpants back on in between. She looks over and smiles mischievously, and he pounces with kisses as she laughs.

It isn’t so bad, being inside—when he can be inside her.

* * *

Before him, this kind of pleasure was purely theoretical. Hypothetical. Abstract.

But now he gives her an ocean of it—waves—first gently lapping, then cresting and crashing. He’s the sea _and_ the island.

Her soul is in her cunt, and both are in his keeping.

* * *

His breath is humidity  
Her sweat is the sun  
His thrust is a waterfall  
Her cry is the jungle  
His kiss is life

She is his tropics, and he is her rain

* * *

The first time he enters her, his soul leaves his body with her gasp. He’s no longer human—just a haphazard jumble of molecules whose sole biological function is to please her. She takes him apart.

He puts her together.

(She puts him together, too.)


	2. March 2020 (part 2)

The third time she kisses him, it starts to snow.

Her old wool glove has a hole in one fingertip, so when she touches his jaw there’s a pinpoint of skin on skin. He holds his breath. She smiles a benediction. And white crystals dot her hair: celestial confetti.

* * *

For their bedroom, she’s torn: orange for the sunset, or blue for the ocean?

That night, with paint from her brush on his nose, Ben watches her smile as she surveys their handiwork and he knows she was right.

Love is orange. He can be her ocean.

* * *

“I read your latest chapter, Ben.”

“Oh? What’d you think?”

“It was great! But completely unrealistic.”

“How so?”

“Kylo doesn’t believe that the Kira character loves him back, but she obviously does.”

“She _does?”_

She smiles. “She does.”

* * *

She didn’t know what home was before him. It’s forgetting how lonely feels. It’s a full belly with his head on it. It’s trees or water or even sand, as long as he’s there. 

She doesn’t know the words to tell him, but when he smiles she thinks he understands.

He didn’t know what home was before her. It’s the every day touch of her hand. It’s her voice driving out the old echoes in his head. It’s knowing someone wants him.

He doesn’t know the words to tell her, but when she smiles he thinks she understands.

* * *

She rides past Ben’s shop every morning around 8:42. He starts watching at 8:10, in case she’s early.

Her bike is yellow. It suits her. One day he’s brave enough to stand in the doorway, but she doesn’t notice. He retreats.

She’s the sun. But he looks anyway.

* * *

Her cooking station is next to his—she never looks over, but he sneaks glances. Her lips part when she’s especially intent. The steam flushes her skin and loosens tendrils at her temples.

Food tastes like sand when she’s near. All he wants to eat is her.

* * *

His parents went off who knows where, leaving Ben with their guide. She drinks from her canteen and grins as she tosses him his. A stray drop quivers on her lip. He’d like to know what her sweat tastes like.

What pyramid? _She’s_ the first wonder of the world.

* * *

He didn’t want forever—until she wanted him.

* * *

“He’s dead,” they said, and called it redemption.

Then a thousand thousand voices rose up. “No, he’s alive, see? In this writing, in this art. In the hope his story gave me. He’s alive,” they said.

And so he was.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I expanded two of these microfics to full one-shots:  
> Yellow bike (rated M): [Watches](https://archiveofourown.org/works/23481298)  
> Kitchen (rated E): [To Taste](https://archiveofourown.org/works/23382739)
> 
> I do a lot of my writing nowadays on [Twitter](https://twitter.com/CeliaAnd2)—feel free to come visit! 🤗
> 
> —
> 
> It’s been four months since I sat in my car on the side of the road and wrote the first draft of the first chapter of my first fic.
> 
> Since then, I’ve gotten more love than I could’ve imagined in four years.
> 
> I’m sitting here overflowing with it right now. Thank you.
> 
> ♥️


	3. May to August 2020

She tallies sandy sunsets and yearns for someone to appear. Someone kind and strong, who smells like family. But the wall fills up and doubt creeps in. She tells herself:

Magic isn’t real.

Then a voice replies—at once inside and worlds away:

_ Are you sure? _

* * *

His eyes have wanted since the start. The yearning abides, if she could only see it, in the way the hazel yields to yawning black. She doesn’t know how to read the wanting, or she’s not ready to. It’s okay. His eyes can wait.

But now his hand wants, too.

* * *

She’d thought of love as something that needed to be carefully built, bit by bit. Flimsy enough for a rough wind to knock it down. But she looks up and it’s whole: solid stone, with two eyes for windows and a heart for a door.

Love is a house, and she’s home.

* * *

He’s been sliced. Shredded. Scarred. Not just on the outside. But now there’s her. And when he looks for the old hurt he doesn’t find it.

There’s still bad in the world. He might get another gash. But she’ll be there to smooth it away, again and again and again.

* * *

It’s the way he looks at her when she says it. Even on humdrum Tuesdays when she drops him off for work with a quick kiss. She’ll need at least a couple lifetimes to get used to this: the incredulous awe, the breathless worship.

“Hey. I love you.”

He marvels.

* * *

“My Benst friend,” she had called him, one drunken night in law school, and it stuck. She loves him with a best friend love. But he still has time—he can still find the words to tell her his whole heart is hers.

After all, her wedding isn’t until tomorrow.

* * *

She works lemonade. He works hot dogs. He has a clear view of her arm, every time she pulls the juicer’s lever down. Her bicep bulges. He clenches the counter. His tongs drop another wiener.

She sees. She winks, bites her lip.

What’s a state fair, without heat?

* * *

He does a good job of not looking at her, most of the time. Only for necessities. Like seeing how gorgeous she is. (Wait, no.)

She opens the picnic basket and starts eating while handing out lunch.

“Rey, may I have a sand— never mind.”

Mayo. On her lip. (Fuck.)

* * *

The heat clings like a second dress. Sweat beads between her breasts.

He squats to tend the roses. She tries not to look. He strains upward to trim the hedges. She looks.

Why do her lips part without her say-so? And is it just the bees, or is her skin buzzing?

* * *

His heart trips over her smile. The swooping stumble should be familiar by now, but it still catches him by surprise, every time.

How long will it last? Is this for forever? Even now that his mouth has memorized the taste of that word:

_ Wife. _

* * *

Her bed is an ocean. The pulsing swell, the breathless crest, the merciless undertow that tugs him deeper. He could drown in her. She floods his lungs. He could choke on Dark with a smile.

Forgive me, he thinks. But who to ask? She’s the beginning—and the end.

* * *

“Marry me.”

“I snore. Loudly.”

“I know. Marry me.”

“I’m not good at talking about my feelings.”

“I know. Marry me.”

“I don’t like watermelon.”

“Well that’s a dealbreaker. I take it back.”

“Ben—”

“Rey. Marry me.”

A smile. The irrepressible kind. “Okay.”

* * *

He thought he could be content to be her moon, circling outside her atmosphere. Some times closer than others. Never touching.

Then...she smiled.

Now he’s on her, in her, wrapped around her—as much a part of her as of himself.  


Her equator.

* * *

It was just a normal fight, but he left. He picked up his wallet and keys and he left. He didn’t take his sunglasses.

She thought he liked his sunglasses. He said he did. If he likes them enough, he’ll come back. That’s how it works.

He’ll be back.

(Right?)

* * *

Rey hums as the breeze caresses her sweaty cheek, the water a sparkling infinity. The little boat drifts with furled sail and no aim but pleasure.

She’s accustomed to the rocking now. The rhythmic bob. At times gentle, at times insistent. Of his cock inside her.

* * *

The lake wind shifts. They scoot around their campfire to escape the smoke. He wraps her tighter in an arm and a blanket. He presses a kiss to greying hair.

You know those moments so full of love that you think your heart can’t possibly hold it all?

Ben does.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I expanded the Benst friend tweet into a [full one-shot](https://archiveofourown.org/works/25682863)! 💛


	4. September to October 2020

“Rey, you’re drunk.”

“‘m NOT drunk. Jus’... fizzy.”

“So I suppose if I were to ask you about your feelings for Ben right now you’d have no trouble hiding them.”

“Nope.”

“Okay, how do you feel about Ben?”

“Ben? Love. Love ‘im.”

“I know, peanut.”

* * *

“What’s his name? Hex?”

“Hux.”

“And you need a date to his wedding?”

“Yes.”

“And you don’t have anyone but me to ask?” She grins. “You must be desperate, Solo.”

His smile is strangely sad.

“You have no idea.”

* * *

She glares at him accusingly. “Why didn’t you order dessert?”

“I’m not a dessert person.”

“Mmph,” she grunts unintelligibly, mouth full.

One day he’ll be able to watch his coworker licking a spoon and not get hard. That’s what he tells himself.

* * *

“I can’t feel the flashlight. Aren’t there candles around here somewhere?”

“Oof! You stepped on my foot.”

“Your feet are too big. They should contribute to the rent. Hey! Why didn’t you tell me you were holding the flashlight?”

“Rey. That’s not the flashlight.”

* * *

“Okay sweetheart, time for a pros and cons list.”

“Mmm?”

“Of you going to class.”

“Mmph.”

“Obviously, the first con is that you would have to get out of my bed.”

“Mm hmm.”

“You would also have to put clothes on.”

“Don’t wanna.”

“Oh, I fully share that sentiment. You naked in my bed is clearly an ideal state.”

“So warm.”

“You’re about to get a lot warmer if you don’t—oof—shift your thigh a little bit.”

“Ben!”

“Which brings us to another con: I wouldn’t be able to fuck you right now.”

“Mmm. It’s settled. You convinced me.”

“Wait! You haven’t heard the pros.”

“Hmm?”

“Rey, please stop grinding on my hip, you’re making it very hard to think.”

“Good.”

“The first pro is—fuck—that you’ll be glad you went.”

“Are you sure about that?”

“Yes. Because school is important to you.”

“Your cock is important to me.”

“Holy shit, Rey...”

“Any more pros?”

“Yes?”

“Mmm, can you think of what they are right now?”

“Guh... maybe?”

“I’m all ears.”

“It seems like you’re mostly—oh fuck—hands right now.”

“I’m going to climb on top of you in about five seconds, so if you have any more pros you should probably say them now.”

“Wait, I do! If you go to class now you won’t be mad at me later.”

“Why would I be mad?”

“Because I know how strongly you feel about getting an education. And I would be standing in the way of that.”

“Okay, was that supposed to make me want to fuck you less, or...”

“Go to class, Rey. Shower and get dressed and go learn some things, and then come back and I’ll have a hot breakfast waiting on the table for you, and then I’ll eat you out on the couch and then you can ride me in bed.”

“Mmm.”

“Was that a complaining mmm or a happy mmm?”

“Both.”

“Good, now go shower before I spank you.”

“Why are you so good to me?”

“Because I won the lottery when you fell in love with me. The kind where you never want for anything else in your life. The least I can do is try to make you happy.”

“I’m SO happy.”

“I’m glad. Now get out of bed, you scamp.”

“Come shower with me?”

“I don’t think that’s a good idea.”

“Wait, you haven’t heard the pros and cons.”

* * *

The bridge sways with the wind, and his hand shoots out automatically for hers.

She grins. “Afraid of a little breeze, Solo?”

He scoffs. “I just wanted to make sure YOU were okay.”

“I’m okay.” She clasps his hand in both of hers and smiles. “I’ve got you.”

* * *

“Your suit is sooo nice, *hic* Ben. Good seams. Can’t even see the thread. Super— *hic* superstition.”

“Oh, it looks like it’s time to get you home, sweetheart.”

“Mmm. Home. Be— *hic* Ben?”

“Yeah?”

“I very love you.”

He smiles. “I very know.”


End file.
